


And I'll shiver like I used to

by kathkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Reincarnation, VERY loosely this doesn't have the usual themes of the story of Pygmalion at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: He could taste it on his tongue, the salty tang of the sea, fresher and somehow saltier than the sea he knew. He could feel the sand, soft and light underfoot, warm from the sun. 'Sam,' the voice had said, saying his name so tenderly, so carefully, as if it were something precious, something to be treasured. 'Oh, Sam. I’ll wait for you.'Samwise Mason is a junior member of the Stonemason's Guild of Haven City; he works hard, but doesn't stand out. He dreams, again and again, of a beach with white sand and a kiss goodbye. Samwise Mason is making a statue.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 29
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe I started writing this in December of last year... I poked at it on and off for months and then decided to commit to it and wrote about 14,000 words in 5 days.
> 
> I don't know anything about how marble sculptures are made & I didn't feel like doing any research so I've just tried to that side of things vague... I apologise if there are any wild inaccuracies.
> 
> Title from [Shiver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1o84y-5-cO0) by Lucy Rose, which I listened to a lot while writing!
> 
> This story is complete and chapters 2 and 3 will follow as and when they are edited.

He was jarred awake by a loud _thump thump thump_. Blearily, he raised his head from his drafting table and looked around the workshop, at the whitewashed walls, the tool cupboard, the open curtains he hadn’t closed the night before. Sunlight streamed through the window, so bright he was surprised it hadn’t wakened him.

His head ached. He put it back on the drafting table and with a groan shut his eyes.

It came again, _thump thump thump_ , and he placed the sound, as he had not before, as a knock on the door.

“Too early to be waking people up,” he muttered as he levered himself upright. “I ask you.” His neck hurt, and as he stumbled towards the workshop door he stretched it out. It didn’t help.

 _Why are you sleeping in your workshop, Sam_ , his friends asked him now and again. _You’ve a perfectly good bed upstairs._ And he’d tell them that sometimes he’d get lost in his work and sit up so late he didn’t feel like climbing the stairs to his perfectly good bed.

He bolted the workshop door behind him and as he did so his visitor knocked rudely on the front door yet again. “I’m _coming!_ ” he said aloud, crossing the kitchen to the door.

He opened it, and blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes, trying to adjust to the sunlight. Standing on his doorstep was a hobbit in the smart jacket and feathered hat of a city messenger. In his hand he held an envelope. “Hello?” said Sam.

“Message from the Haven Council for the stonemason.” The messenger thrust the envelope in Sam’s direction.

“Oh.” Sam rubbed at his eye. “He passed on, sir. Almost a year back.”

The messenger stood rigid, his hand outstretched holding the stiff paper envelope. He blinked, and his voice less stern said, “who did?”

“The master stonemason, sir.” Sam rubbed again at his bleary eyes. “Sorry.”

“The message is for the master of this workshop,” said the messenger.

“Aye?” The penny dropped. “Oh.”

“Is that you?” said the messenger. “Or is there someone else I can talk to?”

“That’d be me, sir,” said Sam.

The messenger took his hand by the wrist and put the envelope in it. “Your message.”

Sam looked at the envelope, with its official blue seal. He didn’t feel right opening a fancy thing like that, but he supposed he had to. He broke the seal and cast his eye over the letter.

“Hey, now!” he exclaimed. “You sure you’ve got the right shop?”

The messenger tilted his head up, looking at the sign above the door. “Yes,” he concluded. “That’ll be all, master stonemason.” He tipped his hat and marched away along the street.

Sam stepped out onto the doorstep, dumbfounded. “This can’t be for me!” he shouted in the messenger’s wake.

In his kitchen, he made a mug of tea. He sat at the table and sipped it. He opened the envelope and looked again at the letter, to be sure he hadn’t misread it. He finished his tea and without bothering to change out of the clothes he had slept in he fetched his hat.

He’d been late waking up and by the time he reached the stonemason’s guild the morning rush of hobbits on their way to meetings and appointments was in full swing. He waited half an hour in increasing agitation to see a clerk – a clerk who was, by the way he eyed Sam, entirely disinterested.

“Business?” he said crisply.

Sam took the letter from his pocket and offered it to the clerk. The clerk didn’t take it, leaving him waving it vainly. “Um,” he said. “I think I was sent this by mistake.”

“Take it up with the postmasters.” The clerk drew breath to call out for the next guildshobbit.

“It didn’t come by posthobbit,” said Sam. “It came by city messenger.” He proffered the letter again. “I really don’t think it’s for me.”

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes the clerk took the letter and opened it up. He cast an eye over the contents and said, “are you Samwise Mason?”

“Aye, sir,” said Sam.

“Samwise Mason, workshop on the Street of the White Sparrow,” said the clerk. “That you?”

“Aye, that’s me,” said Sam. “But –”

“Then the letter’s for you.” 

“But it’s not my business,” Sam said. “It’s not my sort of work at all.”

“It’s got your name, your address, the seal of the guild, and the seal of the council to boot,” said the clerk. “What more do you want? Says here the materials are coming the day after tomorrow so you’d best hop to it.” 

He slid the letter back under the glass screen. Sam looked hopelessly down at it.

“Don’t pull that face.” The clerk was peering over his shoulder, all ready call out _next_. “’Tis an honour to be asked to work for the city council.”

The letter said the council would be providing all the materials and half the pay upfront, that was right enough, but that didn’t cover everything. “How am I supposed to find someone to model for it?” said Sam. “There’s nothing in here about –”

“Yes, there is.” The clerk took the letter back and indicated the pertinent clause. “No model. Municipal sculptures can’t have the faces of real persons living or dead on them. S’regulations.”

“Then what am I supposed to make him look like?”

“Use your imagination.” Tiring of the conversation, the clerk shouted over Sam’s shoulder, “ _next!_ ”

Sam stumbled out onto the street, blinking in the sunlight, still clutching the letter in a clammy hand. He looked down at it, at his name incongruously inked on the envelope, at the council seal. There were a lot of things he probably ought to do with that letter.

He shoved it into his pocket, resolved to forget about it until it became more pressing, and went back to the workshop to get on with his usual work.

That evening, the sky outside darkening, he set the kettle on the stove. The gentle rumble of it boiling was a comfort. The kitchen was always so quiet, once he’d finished his work for the day. The workshop and house were so quiet, without the old master.

When the kettle boiled, he made up his tea and the kitchen fell silent again. He went back into the workshop, warm and cluttered, and settled himself on the window ledge. Outside the stars were just coming out.

He sat alone, and drank his tea.

*

In his dream, he was standing on a beach. The sand was white, the sea blue and sparkling; gentle waves lapped not far from his feet. The sun overhead was warm. He felt warm, and safe.

He wasn’t alone on the beach. There was someone there with him. A pair of hands, in his. A voice, speaking softly, saying words that made his chest ache, words he couldn’t quite remember. Blue eyes looking into his. 

A face.

He jolted away, groggy, sitting in his kitchen chair. The window was inky black. His back and shoulders ached. Sighing, he sat up and stretched them out. “You need to stop doing this, Samwise,” he remarked to himself.

He wasn’t sure if he meant sleeping sitting up, or the dream.

The beach in his dream wasn’t like the beaches he knew. Sandy, rather than stony. White soft sand he could still feel the ghost of between his toes. Soft hands in his rough ones. And that face. 

Most of his dreams weren’t so clear; most of his dreams were nonsense, faded, jumbled images with no sense to them. But now and then, _that_ dream, so clear and bright that the rest of his life seemed to drift away; that it seemed to him, while he was dreaming it, to be the only real thing. 

That face, seen with perfect clarity. It sat at the back of his mind for hours after waking – days, sometimes – an image of a face, as clear as a photograph.

Someone once told him that every face you saw in a dream was someone you saw with your waking eyes, once upon a time.

He ought to go up to bed and go back to sleep. Instead he went into his workshop, unfastening the heavy latch and lighting a lamp. He went to the table and took up a sheet of drafting paper.

He’d had enough drawing lessons when he was at guild school. He knew how to draw. Picking up his pencil he tried it, sketching out the lines of that chin, the shape of those big eyes. Several times he scratched out what he’d done and started again on a fresh sheet of paper. 

Then at last, his eyes burning, he had it. Looking down at his sketch he felt an uneasy prickle of recognition. There he was, the person from his dream, made real and yet ghostlike in faint grey lines of pencil.

He shoved the sketch beneath a pile of half-finished drafts. In the kitchen he splashed cold water on his face and stretched, working out the kinks in his back.

Outside, the sun was coming up.

*

When the materials arrived he was ready for them, or at least he looked ready. He tidied the workshop to make space, and combed his hair, and made sure to put on one of his good waistcoats.

“In here,” he said, holding open the workshop door.

“Right you are,” said one of the delivery hobbits. The two of them trundled in the stone block on its little cart. He heard a mumbled command, and a twin grunt as they heaved it upright. A solid _thunk_ of stone on stone.

“Funny choice for a job like this, aren’t you?” The supervisor handed him the clipboard with the paperwork.

Sam signed the first page. “Don’t I know it.”

“Two forms, in triplicate.” The supervisor motioned for him to keep going. “Mind you, must be nice knowing you’ll have your work on the city hall and all that.”

“Aye, I suppose.” Sam signed again, and again. “Assuming I finish it. Don’t know where to start with a job like this.”

“Don’t fret.” The supervisor checked the clipboard over. “Where it’s going to be is so high up no-one will notice if it’s a mess.” He clucked his tongue, satisfied, and tucking the pen back into his top pocket he whistled for his lads to follow him out.

“That don’t make me feel better!” Sam called after them.

The front door banged, the latch rattling, not catching. You had to be careful with that door, it didn’t fall closed neatly. He latched it shut. Standing back, he looked through the open door of the workshop.

There it was, the silent, covered block of stone, just the right size to make into a hobbit; which was to say, taller than him. He didn’t like the way it loomed. The sheet covering it gave it a ghostly air.

There was no room for mistakes, in a job like this.

 _Right, then_ , he said to himself, clapping his hands together. He could do it. Figural work wasn’t so different from the jobs he was used to. It was just a matter of following a different kind of pattern. He shut up the workshop, put on his hat, and walked up to the stonemason’s guild to use the library.

He was there for a good few hours, finding the right sorts of books, looking at images of arms, legs, torsos. He was out of practice but he was sure it’d come back to him. He’d muddle through. He could worry about the face when he got to it. He ate lunch at a table on his own in the guild refectory and then headed home with his books, lighter in spite of the heavy burden in his arms.

After the bustle of the streets and the library and the refectory it was painfully quiet in the workshop. He could feel the stone looming behind him as he put the books away on an empty shelf. He tried not to look at it. He looked at it.

Once he looked, he couldn’t help himself. He pulled back the covering sheet. It hissed against the block, pooling soft and quiet upon the floor. There it was, the stone. White marble, like all the other statues on the city hall. Up close it had a faint shimmer to it, a sparkle of crystal. It was warmer than he’d expected. It must have sucked up warmth from the sunlight that streamed through the workshop window, even through the sheet. 

His hand pressed to its flat surface, he thought of the figure that was inside it, waiting to come out.

*

The design sat upon his drafting table, perfect, tailored to the city council’s specifications, faceless. It took him days to draw, two sleepless nights, endless mugs of tea. The figure of the statue danced across sheets of drafting people in wispy pencil lines.

The hobbit he’d drawn seemed light as air. Drawing the figure from different angles Sam found it hard to keep the way he stood consistent. He was out of practice. He kept finding he’d shifted an arm or a leg or tilted his head the wrong way. 

“Stay still,” he muttered to himself, rubbing out the head yet again. “Stay _still_.”

There were books in the stonemason’s guild library that had faces in them, and they weren’t real people’s faces – or leastways not real people who were alive – so he could probably get away with using one, but he looked through all of them and couldn’t find one that felt right. They were all so stern, and cold.

The set of the figure’s body, the way he held his hands, it had come out looking kind and gentle. He couldn’t put a stern, angry face on it.

He went to the artist’s guild and begged permission to borrow some books on how to draw faces, but the trouble was he was no good at drawing, or not that kind of drawing. He wasn’t good at making things up. He resolved to take the books away with him and practice.

On his way home, loathe to start the long, winding route down from the second circle to the third, he went into the stonemason’s guild to check his pigeonhole.

There were a dozen Mason’s in the stonemason’s guild. It always made him feel a touch warm, seeing his name nestled in amongst them, between _Mason, Peony_ and _Mason, Thomas_. It was good to have a name. It was good to belong somewhere.

He lingered by the pigeonholes, his books balanced in the crook of one elbow, looking through his messages. A handful of memos from the guild council. A stern reminder about keeping the communal workshops tidy, which didn’t apply to him, his not using the communal workshops. An invitation to the junior guildsmen’s party.

Sam read that one again, chewing on his lip. He hadn’t been to the last one. He should probably go.

“Morning.” Another member of the guild, Toby, slouched up against the pigeonholes beside him.

Sam mumbled a reply. He and Toby had been friends a bit, when they were studying; not so much since. Toby wasn’t a Mason. He was a Bolger, and he’d got his surname when he was born, not when he’d joined the guild. It was one of those old, old surnames. Hobbits liked to say that you were all equals, in a guild, but it wasn’t really so.

“Are you going to go?” said Toby, eying the invitation.

“Probably not.” Juggling the books, Sam shoved all his messages into his trouser pocket. “I’m busy, see.”

“Oh, the city council contract?” said Toby. “Fancy.”

“Aye,” Sam agreed.

“Not your usual sort of thing, is it?”

“No,” Sam agreed.

“I should tell you,” Toby said blithely, “a few of the lads are a bit put out. They think they should have got it instead of you, you see.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Sam.

“It being _their_ usual sort of thing, see.”

“You can tell ‘em I didn’t ask for it and they’ve no need to worry,” said Sam. “I’m not moving in on their territory.”

“Tell them yourself.” Straightening up, Toby stepped away from the pigeonholes. “At the party.”

“Maybe.” Sam hefted the books. “I need to get back to work – sorry.” Hastening away, he said over his shoulders, “see you at the next guild meet!”

At a loss for anything else to do, he started the trek back down the steps to the third circle. At the first turn of the stairs, he stopped.

You got a wonderful view of the sea from there, wide and beautiful; and that morning it was especially beautiful, blue and glittering and expansive, a shadow of land just visible on the horizon, a few trading ships dotted here and there.

He had never been over the sea. He’d always said he didn’t want to, there being no reason to leave the city. Sometimes looking at the sea thrilled him, and other times it scared him; and sometimes it filled him with a steady calm.

This was one of those times. He stood upon the landing, creamy stone stretching up on either side of him, the tiny weeds growing from the cracks in the walls lending them scant flashes of colour, gazing out at the sea. He had the strong sense, out of nowhere, that everything was alright; that everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

He stayed there, gazing out, till someone else came round the turn, and ashamed to be seen loitering he hastened on down towards the third circle.

*

The statue emerged, piece by piece, from the stone. A head, half-formed and lumpy. Shoulders. Upper arms. The flat plain of a chest. The figure was emerging head first, as if it was climbing out into the world. It was a strange sight, when Sam looked into the workshop, half a hobbit stretching up out of a craggy block of stone.

He ran a hand over the soft swell of a shoulder. Down the arm to where the elbow would be. It was starting to be real. It had not been real at first. He hadn’t been able to imagine how a block of stone and a few simple sketches could possibly become something so real and solid as a statue; now he could see what it would look like finished, when he closed his eyes. He could see all of it but the face.

How hard could it be, to draw a face. It was just a matter of putting the pieces together – the eyes from this book, the nose from this. The faces all came out stern and solemn, or else they looked ridiculous and mis-matched.

He sat up long into the night, finger stained with graphite, trying over and over again to sketch a face. His eyes burned. Throwing down the pencil he scrubbed his hands over his face, up through his hair.

It wasn’t long before the statue was due. He was so tired.

His gaze wandered away from his work, to the sketches piled high on the corner of his desk. He’d knocked them earlier and the edge of a weeks-old sketch was poking out, askew. He drew it out, and looked at the face from his dream.

He couldn’t – could he? After all, it might be a real person’s face. A hobbit he had met and forgotten. But more than that it was _his_ face. His face, from his dream. It felt intimate. Important. The idea of putting it on the city hall made him feel a touch queasy.

At the same time, though, the idea of working it in stone, making it into something more substantial, solid, _real_ – there was a thrill to that. A thrill and a belly-deep feeling of satisfaction. He wanted to see that face in three dimensions. He wanted to see it in the waking world.

And after all, what else could he do? He needed a face. Here was a face, as best as he knew one that didn’t belong to anyone real. 

Carefully, with the uneasy sense that he was doing something forbidden, he copied out the face more neatly. The shape of it, of the eyes, the lips, came as easily as if he’d drawn it a hundred times. He drew it again from the side, from beneath and above. Sitting back, he looked at his work, soft around the edges in the orange lamplight.

He looked at the statue, the half-formed thing beneath its sheet. He held up the sketch to its head, and imagined its face.

*

Working on stone had always had a hypnotic quality. He felt it even more when working on a statue, now that he’d got the rhythm of it down. The smooth shapes and lines were pleasant to carve. He could go at it for hours, not thinking of anything else.

“You’ve got one hand done,” he muttered to it as it worked. “We’ll get your other one finished soon – don’t fret. You’re hungry work, you know that?”

He looked up and for half a second was startled to find its face still blank. “Dunno why I’m talking to you,” he said. “You don’t have ears. ’Spose I’m just used to having someone around to talk to as I work.”

He felt lighter, since he’d decided to use his dream-face. He felt lighter for making the decision and committing to it. For knowing he could – _would_ finish the job.

The stone had seemed to large and out of place when it had first arrived, far too big for his little workshop, but the more it shrank, the more the statue took shape, the more at home it felt. The room was less lonely, somehow, with that stone hobbit-shape in it.

He slipped his hand into its finished one, settling it into the curve of the unyielding marble palm. He gave it a squeeze. He sighed.

“Lollygagging,” he said to himself. “Lollygagging again, Sam.”

At midday, he washed the dust from his hands and brushed it out of his hair. As he left the workshop he glanced back at his work. “I’ll be back soon,” he said without thinking. 

He was locking the front door before he registered what an odd thing that had been to say to a half finished statue.

He walked down through the city to the lower circle. The air in the harbour was fresh and salty and open. He sat upon the harbour wall to watch the green light in the water, to watch the boats coming in and out on their way to the next island city. Sailing off to places he had never been.

He unwrapped his statues and began to eat, slowly, savouring his time in the outdoors, watching the white sail of a ship as it glided out of the harbour. A gull landed nearby. He tossed it one of his crusts and watched as it picked at it before lifting it in its beak and gliding away.

He heaved in a breath of sea air.

That night he had the dream again, clearer than ever; so clear that when he woke he lay a moment staring at the ceiling, struggling to orient himself.

He could taste it on his tongue, the salty tang of the sea, fresher and somehow saltier than the sea he knew. He could feel the sand, soft and light underfoot, warm from the sun. He could feel soft skin beneath his fingers as he stroked someone’s face.

A kiss. The ghost of lips against his. He remembered the feel of that kiss, the taste of it, the way it had made him feel; warm and good inside, but not thrilled he usually felt when kissed. A feeling of longing, of sadness. 

Arms around him. A voice against his ear. This time, as he never had before, he remembered the words the voice had spoken. Sam, the voice had said, saying his name so tenderly, so carefully, as if it were something precious, something to be treasured. Oh, Sam. I’ll wait for you.

Still lying abed, the dream already fading, Sam touched his lips.

*

The statue had two hands, now. It had thighs, and would soon have knees. It had a tummy, slightly rounded and soft-looking. He hadn’t given it a tummy in the design but as he’d been carving he’d thought _no, he should have a bit of tummy._

Stepping back, still holding his tools, he looked up at it. “You’ll be done soon,” he said. “Then they’ll be coming to take you away.”

He felt an uncomfortable pang beneath his ribs at the thought. He was saving the face for last. He bit his lip. It might be even harder to part with it when it had its face – had _his_ face.

He forced that thought out of his mind and went back to work.

The front door banged open. “Afternoon!”

“Oh, aye, just let yourself in why don’t you,” said Sam to the statue.

Merry’s heard appeared around the door of his workshop. “Lock your door.” He sauntered on in.

“You’re looking well.” Sam looked him up and down. “Nice jacket.”

Merry adjusted it, straightening its crisp edges. “Thanks. You have dust on your face.”

Sam wiped at his cheek. “Did you want something?”

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” said Merry with a shrug. “Thought I’d check in.” He perched upon the edge of Sam’s drafting table and nodded at the statue. “This the city hall job, then?”

Sam looked from Merry to the statue and back again. “You heard about that?”

“There was some chat at the pub,” said Merry. “You coming this week?”

“Can’t,” said Sam. “Busy.”

“Well, Pippin says to tell you you’re an ass and he’s not speaking to you.” Nosy as ever, Merry began to shuffle through the papers on the drafting table. “It’s looking good.”

“The statue?” said Sam. “Aye, he’s coming along.”

“Hm.” Merry held up the sketch of the statue’s face. “This what he’s going to look like?”

“Yeah.”

Merry cocked his head to the side. “He’s cute.”

Sam snatched the sketch back. “Don’t you have work to be doing?”

Spreading his hands, Merry said, “free all day.”

“Well, I’m busy,” said Sam. “Go find someone else to bother.”

“Can do!” Merry hopped off the drafting table.

Turning away Sam busied himself pointlessly arranging his tools. Behind him he heard a swishing of cloth as Merry shifted his weight.

“Are you alright?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Sam.

“We’ve barely seen you lately.”

“Aye, well.” Sam jerked his head at the statue. “I’ve been busy with this council job.”

“Hm.” Merry shoved his hands into the pockets of his smart new jacket.

He’d not seen much of Sam since before the council job, and they both knew it. He and Pippin hadn’t seen much of Sam all year. Not since his old master had passed on.

“I’m busy,” Sam said. “And m’tired.”

“You can telephone any time, if you want some company,” said Merry, drifting backwards towards the door.

“Aye,” said Sam vaguely. “I will. Now get lost.”

“If I must.” Merry lingered a moment in the doorway, eyeing the statue. “Telephone me when it’s done,” he said. “I’d like to see it, before they put it up on the roof.” He gave the doorway a decisive tap and was gone.

“See you, then,” Sam called out in his wake. The door rattled, not closing fully. “The latch!” he called. There was no answer. He went out into the kitchen to close it properly.

“Honestly,” he said to the statue as he came back into the workshop. “He thinks he lives here, don’t he? Wandering in and out like he lives here.” He took up his tools once again. “I suppose I ought to telephone some time, oughtn’t I?” He looked up at its blank face. “Oughtn’t I?”

It struck him then what he was doing – talking to a statue like a friend. Like it could hear him. If his old master were there he’d have given him a talking to for it.

“You’re going dotty, Sam,” he said under his breath as he began to work again. “Proper dotty.”

*

In his bedroom, Sam worked at the buttons of his good waistcoat. He’d only worn it a handful of times and the buttonholes were stiff and cumbersome. He got it done up most of the way, then cursed himself for he’d gone and put a button in the wrong hole.

He did them up again and looked at himself in his spotted mirror. He looked as he always did when dressed in his smart clothes, which was rather like a dog forced into a jumper.

He adjusted his stiff cuffs and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he lingered outside the door to the workshop, checking his waistcoat was sitting right. He shouldn’t go in – shouldn’t risk getting stone dust on his good clothes.

Inside, he drew off the sheet and looked up at the statue, naked, luminous in the evening light. 

He looked up at the face. It was so strange, seeing the face with his waking eyes. He touched its cheek, the marble cool against his fingers. He traced a thumb over its lower lip. It had the most perfect lips.

He’d had the dream against last night. He’d dreamed once again of kissing those lips and felt it again, that yearning feeling. It was a parting kiss, he realised. A kiss goodbye. He had never been kissed like that in his waking life. Why did he dream of it, then. Why did he _dream_ of it.

In the dream tears had spilled down his cheeks and gentle fingers had wiped them away, a voice speaking soft words of admonishment he couldn’t recall. Arms wrapped around him in an embrace. His name spoken softly against his ear.

_I’ll wait for you._

The day after tomorrow the lads from the city council would be over to take it away. He’d been so pleased when he’d finished early but now he wished he hadn’t. It had only been hours and already he didn’t know how he’d bear parting with it. If he had more sanding to do, to occupy his hands, to take his mind off it – if he’d left off finishing it till the last day, he wouldn’t have so much time to get attached.

But he was going to be late. He covered the statue over and latched the door of the workshop behind himself.

The basement refectory at the guild was crowded, tight, warm. He took a drink and one of the chunky triangular sandwiches from the buffet table, not really wanting either. There he stood, gnawing on his sandwich, watching the crowd. It wasn’t even eight o’clock.

“Sam!” called out Toby Bolger, waving to him.

Sam hung back for a moment. He went to join Toby’s little group. “Evening.”

“Evening.” Toby stuffed his hands into his pockets and crisply nodded.

He was with his lass, Coral from the dressmaker’s guild, and Otto Boffin. That was another good, old name, Boffin. Sam had never talked to Otto but he knew him by his reputation, which was glowing and artistic.

“This is Sam, Otto,” said Toby.

“Evening.” Otto offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Sam..?”

“Mason,” Sam supplied, shaking his hand. He didn’t doubt Otto knew he was a Mason. He didn’t like the curl of his smile.

“You’re the lad who got the city hall project.”

“Aye,” said Sam. “That’s me.”

“How’s that coming?” said Otto.

“It’s coming.”

Otto smiled again. His smile was lopsided. “Hear it’s due any day now.”

“Aye, well, it’s coming,” said Sam.

“Did you hear Pansy and Ted are engaged?” said Coral – bless her, trying to change the subject.

“Aye,” said Otto. “I heard. How’d you go about getting a council project?”

“I dunno,” said Sam truthfully. “They just gived it to me.”

“Must have done something pretty special to impress them.”

“Couldn’t say,” Sam said. “I dunno why they gived it to me.”

“Can I see it?” said Otto.

“The statue?” said Sam.

“Aye.”

There was a frosty pause. It wasn’t normal, to ask to see a job in progress you weren’t working on. Not if the stonemason wasn’t a friend and he and Otto weren’t even close to friends.

“No,” said Sam. “It’s not done.”

“I hear the next one’s between you and that Proudfoot lad, Otto,” said Toby. “You’re sure to get it. Proudfoot’s a hack.”

“Nothing’s ever sure,” said Otto. To Sam, he said, “I’d really like to see it.”

“Well, you can’t,” said Sam. “Not till it’s done and up on the hall.”

“Hm.” Otto looked him up and down. “Nice waistcoat.” He tweaked one of the buttons.

Sam took a step back. “Thank you.” He took a bite of his sandwich and instantly regretted it. His mouth was dry and the bread was dry and it was hard to chew.

“Where’s it from?” said Otto.

“Don’t remember,” said Sam around his stodgy mouthful.

“Funny to think Ted’s going to be married,” said Toby.

“If they make it work,” said Otto.

“Time flies, don’t it?” said Coral. “Everyone seems to be getting married these days.” She squeezed Toby’s hand. Toby shot Sam a grimace as if to say _let’s hope not_.

“Your girl not make it tonight?” he said to Otto.

“No – off somewhere with her Ma,” said Otto. “How about you, Sam?”

“I don’t have a girl,” said Sam.

“Really?” said Otto. “Handsome boy like you?”

Sam shrugged.

“Well,” said Otto. “I just wanted to pass on my compliments to you. I think it’s smashing.”

“What is?” said Sam, befuddled.

“A city council job like that going to a Mason,” said Otto. “Good for you.”

There was lettuce caught in his teeth. He couldn’t get it out, in front of Otto and the others. “We’re all masons here.”

“You know what I mean,” said Otto. “They usually go to one of the proper names, don’t they? And you a common Mason.”

Sam looked to Toby and Coral for support, and got none. Toby was nervously smiling. Coral avoided his gaze.

He said, “thank you.”

Otto clapped him upon the shoulder, a smile fixed on his face. “Good on you,” he said. “Well done.”

He ambled away into the crowd, leading Sam with a heavy, sick feeling in his stomach. He wished he hadn’t come.

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” said Toby. “Just his way.”

“Aye,” said Sam.

“You want another drink?”

The heavy feeling grew heavier still as the night went on. It was too warm in the basement and the electric lights were too bright. The sandwiches he’d eaten didn’t sit well on his stomach. He stood at the edge of Toby and Coral’s group, half-listening to the conversation.

The dancing started. He sat on a chair by the wall, watching the couples. He’d never danced with anyone before. He finished his third drink of the night and sat holding the cup, not wanting to edge around the dancing people to put it back.

In spite of himself he began stewing once again on what Otto had said. _Proper names_ and all. He had a proper name. Mason was a proper name.

The stairs down to the third circle were cold underfoot. He paused before the turn, looking back at the guild, at the orange light spilling out of the basement door.

He went on home.

He tugged off his smart waistcoat and dumped it on his bedroom chair, heedless of the creases. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, mussing it. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror he was flushed and sour-faced.

Embarrassingly, he found he wanted to cry. He’d always cried easy. He breathed in, deep, and swallowed the feeling down.

He went downstairs, meaning to make some tea before bed. Instead his feet carried him into the workshop. The only place he wanted to be, that night. The only place he wanted to be most nights.

Uncovering the statue, he looked at its blank eyes.

“Proper names.” He dropped the sheet on the floor. “What does he know about having a name? People with old names don’t know nothing about having a name.”

Reaching up, he curled his hand around the statue’s neck, touching its nape, feeling the shallow cuts he’d made to give the suggestion of hair, stroking the smooth dip in the marble at the top of its spine.

“He was trying to make me feel small. Wasn’t he?” he said, his tongue loosened by the drinks he’d had. “Well, I won’t let him.”

The statue was silent, and impassive. But he had the sense, as he often did, that if he could hear it would understand. He touched its stone cheek. Traced a finger down the line of its nose.

“I think,” he said, his voice a touch shaky. “I think I’m going to miss you when they take you away.”

He realised the truth of the words only as he said them. He would. He would miss the statue, when it was taken away.

“I won’t even be able to see you properly where they’re going to put you,” he said miserably. “I wish they didn’t have to take you away.” He touched its perfect lips. “I wish –”

He knew what he wished, and what he wanted. He remembered standing by the sea – the soft sand beneath his toes and soft lips against his.

Stroking the statue’s face, he bit his lip. It was silly. It made no sense. But he wanted to. He _wanted_ to.

And after all, there was no-one there to see.

“Just one, then,” he said to the statue. “To say goodbye.”

Stretching up on his tip-toes, Sam touched his lips to the statue’s stone mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. He closed his eyes.

When the statue’s lips turned warm and yielding against his, for a moment he didn’t question it. There was a breath, in, and out. A shiver. Lips parting – kissing back. A hand, upon his cheek.

When he drew away, bright blue eyes gazed into his. A face he’d seen so many times in his dreams, soft, and real. Pink lips, curling up into a smile.

Smiling, the statue spoke in the voice that had spoken so tenderly against his ear.

The statue said, “hello again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re so young,” said Frodo at length. “What age are you?”_   
>  _“Just shy of thirty.”_   
>  _Looking out to sea, Frodo said, “I knew it would be like this. But I didn’t know what it would be like. Do you know what I mean?”_   
>  _“I think so,” said Sam._   
>  _“It’s just so strange.” Frodo’s eyes were on him again. Reaching out he touched Sam’s face, stroking his cheek. “Seeing you like this.”_

With a cry of alarm, Sam stumbled back.

Stepping off the plinth, one hand outstretched, was a hobbit – was his statue, made flesh. His hair was dark and soft-looking, his eyes blue as the sea. He was the image of the statue, only the hand stretched out towards Sam was missing a finger, and Sam thought _I didn’t carve it that way._

“Sam –” said the hobbit.

He didn’t have the presence of mind to think that it might be a trick, or a dream. All he could do was gape in panicked confusion. Gooseflesh was rising all up and down his arms, his skin prickling. He had been alone, in his workshop – and now, impossibly, he was not.

“Sam.” The hobbit held up both his hands in a placating gesture. “Sam, it’s alright.”

He collided with his drafting table and groping blindly behind himself snatched up an empty mug. “Stay back!” he cried, and threw it at the other hobbit – at the statue. It shattered on the far wall.

“Sam, it’s _me_ ,” said the statue. “I’m here.” He looked down at himself. “And I’m naked.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Sam leaned heavily on the drafting table, breathing hard, his shoulders heaving, reeling.

The hobbit said, “I don’t suppose I could borrow some clothes?”

Sam bolted. Dragging the workshop door closed behind himself he bolted it fast and slumped back against it, breathing like he’d just run a mile. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “Oh goodness. Oh no, no.”

This was it. He’d finally cracked. He’d felt it coming and now it had happened. He’d gone completely off the deep end.

“Sam?” He felt a nudge upon the door as the hobbit pushed on it from the other side. “Sam, I can see that this has been a shock to you and I don’t doubt that you’re confused, and – and frightened, but everything really is alright. It’s just me.”

He covered his mouth and tried not to breathe so loudly.

“Will you let me out?”

Pointlessly, Sam shook his head.

“If you need some space just now I’ll understand,” said the hobbit through the door. “But I wasn’t joking about needing some clothes. It really is quite cold in here.”

He took a step away from the door. The latch rattled as he took his weight off it.

“Sam?” said the hobbit. “Sam, I know you’re still out there. I can hear you.”

Sam put his unsteady hand on the latch.

The voice said, “Sam?”

*

The hobbit – the statue – whatever he was, he stood in Sam’s kitchen, clad in a shirt and a pair of trousers that hung too loose on his slender frame, drinking a glass of water. Sam studied his profile as he drank, the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips.

He knew that face. He’d carved that face from stone. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t _real_.

“ _Oh_.” The hobbit wiped his mouth. “That’s better. It was really dry in there.”

“In the workshop?” Sam ventured.

“In the statue,” said the hobbit lightly.

“Oh,” said Sam.

The other hobbit looked Sam up and down, drinking him in. He was looking at Sam like he was a comfortable bed he wanted to curl up in at the end of a long day – or a loaf of bread still warm from the oven that he couldn’t wait to dig into. 

He said, “it’s so good to see you again, Sam.”

“Uh-huh,” said Sam. “How do you know my name?”

The hobbit cocked his head. “You don’t know my name?”

He had a moment of absurd anxiety, as if a hobbit he could swear he’d never met before had walked up to him in the guild headquarters and said _hullo Sam, remember me?_

“No,” he said. The other hobbit’s face fell – not angry, and not even really sad, just mutely resigned. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said the hobbit, wandering away to put the glass by the sink. “I’m sure it’ll come back.”

“Aye – maybe,” said Sam. “But just in case it don’t, maybe you ought to tell me?”

Coming back over, the hobbit took Sam’s face in his hands and the warmth of that touch, the familiarity, all but took Sam’s breath away. “My name is Frodo,” he said, “and I missed you.”

“Frodo,” Sam echoed.

The name felt oddly right, in his mouth. That was the name that went with the face in his dream. Hearing it again, the memory settled comfortably back into place.

“Where did you come from?” he said.

“A very long way away,” said Frodo, still cradling his face.

“How’d you get here?” 

“That’s a very long story,” Frodo said, “and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell it tonight.” He stroked Sam’s hair. “You look tired.”

“Aye,” said Sam. “I am. And ‘m a bit drunk.”

Frodo laughed. “Oh, Sam.” His thumb stroked Sam’s cheekbone. “Sam. My dear Sam. Can I hug you?”

“I’d like that,” Sam confessed.

Frodo hugged him tight, and Sam hugged back. He pressed his face into Frodo’s neck and breathed in. The smell of him, the feel of him in his arms, all of it was _right_ , and he felt a rush of fondness in his chest, a rush of affection so intense it made him ache.

“You should get some sleep,” said Frodo against this ear. “We can talk properly in the morning.”

He knew this feeling, Frodo’s arms around him, Frodo’s breath tickling his ear. He’d dreamed of it. Maybe he was dreaming now. Another, still stranger, version of that dream.

He said, “will you still be here in the morning?”

“Of course,” said Frodo. “I’m not leaving you again.”

*

He’d had the dream again last night. Only this time it had been different – they hadn’t been by the sea, but in his kitchen – the shape of their conversation had been different. All of it had been different, except the face, and the voice.

Sam opened his eyes, still muzzy with sleep. There was a cup of water on his bedside table that he hadn’t put there last night. Sitting up, he looked around the room. The curtain was open, yellow morning sunlight pouring in. His smart waistcoat wasn’t on his chair where he’d left it, but neatly on its hanger.

More than that, he could hear someone moving around in the kitchen below. Footsteps on the stone floor. A voice humming. The crackle of the stove.

His heart thumped. He wasn’t alone in the house.

He drank the water, because he was thirsty. He was usually thirsty in the mornings. He got dressed. Slowly, so as not to make any noise, he opened the door. A strong smell of bacon wafted up the stairs. He stepped out onto the landing and poking his head around the corner peered over the bannister into the kitchen.

Frodo was at the stove, cooking bacon. The eggs were out on the worktop beside him. He was still wearing Sam’s too-large shirt and trousers, and that detail, of all things, was what convinced him he wasn’t dreaming. It was too real – too consistent.

He took the stairs one by one, placing his feet quietly. Halfway down a stair creaked and Frodo looked up at him over his shoulder, his face lighting up in a smile so bright it dazzled him.

“Sam!” he said. “You’re up.”

“Mm-hm,” said Sam.

“I’m making breakfast,” said Frodo. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Sam went the rest of the way downstairs. The workshop door was standing half open, just as he’d left it the night before. He put his head inside. The statue’s plinth was empty.

The night before had felt like a dream. This wasn’t a dream. This was, impossibly, real.

He paced over to the stove, studying Frodo. He’d seen his face in so many dreams, but he hadn’t been able to remember every detail of him. There was a little wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows. Like the sound of his name, it was entirely familiar.

Frodo glanced at him and he was aware suddenly that he was staring. But Frodo didn’t seem to mind being stared at. He just smiled, and went back to his cooking. “How’d you sleep?” he said.

“Fine,” said Sam. “And you?”

“So-so,” said Frodo. “I made you some tea.” He nodded a mug on the other side of the stove.

Sam walked around behind him. The way his hair curled at the back of his neck, that too was achingly familiar. He sipped his tea. It was just as he liked it.

He looked again at Frodo, taking in more of his details. The precise shade of his eyes in the morning light. The freckles on the inside of his forearm. The shape of his jaw. He was so handsome that it made Sam ache.

But he was pale, like he’d been ill, and thin for a hobbit. Where his borrowed shirt was riding down at the back Sam could see the knobs of his spine. He had a light, insubstantial quality about him, as if he might blow away in a sudden breeze, or as if Sam might blink and he’d be gone. He had a sudden urge to touch him, to test if he was solid.

“How’s your tea?” said Frodo.

“Perfect,” Sam admitted. Frodo hummed happily. “Um,” he said. “The statue’s gone.”

“Naturally.” Frodo turned over the bacon. “I’m sorry for frightening you last night. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s alright.” It shouldn’t have been. He ought to have been angry, at this sudden, shocking intrusion into his life. But when he looked at Frodo, cooking bacon in his kitchen bold as brass, he couldn’t summon up any anger at all. When he looked at Frodo all he wanted to do was tuck that stray curl of hair behind his ear. “Look,” he said. “I, um. I wanted to ask.”

“Hm?” Frodo glanced at him.

“I sort of get the feeling you know what’s going on just now,” said Sam, “and I’m completely lost.”

Frodo set down the spatula. He rested his hands on either side of the stove and looked at Sam, studying him, searching his face for – something. What he was looking for Sam didn’t know.

He said, “you really don’t remember me?”

Sam shook his head.

“Not a thing?”

He’d never told a soul about his dream. It was a hard dream to describe and it had always felt too intimate to share, like a deep and personal secret. Now, he supposed, would be the time to tell it if ever there was one. But the habit of a lifetime stopped his tongue.

He said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Frodo. “I’m sure it’ll come back.”

“What if it don’t, though?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Privately, Sam thought they might already be at the bridge. He said, “alright.”

“We did know this might happen,” said Frodo.

“We?”

“You and I.”

“Oh.” Sam sipped his tea. “I’d really appreciate if you could explain what you’re doing here and all, though.”

“It’s a very long story,” said Frodo, “and I’m not really sure where to start.” He looked down at the bacon as if it might hold all the answers. Then he sighed, and looked properly at Sam. “I suppose the important thing is that we were together in another life,” he said, “and I’m here now and I love you, and you love me.”

He said _I love you_ not like a declaration but like a statement of fact. He said it like he might say _the sky is blue_ or _water is wet_. Like it was beyond question. Like his loving Sam was a fundamental part of the universe.

“I don’t want to be rude or nothing,” Sam said. “But I just met you last night, and I don’t know that I do.”

“Do what?”

“Love you,” said Sam.

Frodo’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, you wouldn’t have been able to summon me here if you didn’t still love me.”

“I don’t know that I did summon you here,” said Sam.

“I couldn’t be here if you hadn’t summoned me,” said Frodo with a shrug.

“I dunno how to do a thing like that, though,” Sam protested.

“It’s not really something you need to know how to do,” Frodo said. “Can you set the table?”

“Sure,” said Sam, at a loss for anything else to say. He went to fetch the plates.

He didn’t eat at the table often. Since his old master died he’d eaten mostly in the workshop. Eating alone at the big kitchen table had never felt right. “About the statue,” he said, setting out two plates.

“Yes?”

“Where’d it go?”

Frodo shot him a look over his shoulder. “I’m here now.”

“Aye,” said Sam. “But where’d it _go?_ ”

“That’s an interesting question, philosophically speaking,” said Frodo. “I’m not altogether sure.”

Sam gave up. “Is it gonna come back?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“It’s just.” Sam set out the forks and knives. “Not that I’m not glad you’re here, because I am and all. You seem –” He looked at Frodo and about a dozen adjectives crowded his mind at once. “– very nice. But they’re coming to collect the statue tomorrow.”

“Oh, the council?” Frodo broke an egg into the pan. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“Aye, but,” said Sam, “I am worrying about it, though.”

“It’ll work itself out,” said Frodo.

“What am I gonna tell them tomorrow when they come to collect it?”

“Just show them me,” said Frodo. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

He was being teased, and he ought to be annoyed for he hated being teased. But all he wanted to do was go over there and kiss the smile right off Frodo’s face.

Before he could say anything, the telephone rang.

Frodo started, wheeling about as if he couldn’t make sense of where the sound was coming from. Hot oil dripped from the spatula in his hand to the flagstones. “What’s that _noise?_ ”

“It’s the telephone.” Sam took his arms, holding him steady.

“The what?”

“You’ve never heard a telephone before?”

“I don’t know what one is.” Frodo was still looking around the kitchen, searching for the source of the ringing.

“It’s a sort of – speaking machine.” Torn between two wildly different responsibilities, Sam looked from Frodo to the telephone. “Mind the eggs.”

He answered the telephone. “Hello?”

“Sam! Good morning,” said Merry. “How goes it?”

“Fine – aye,” said Sam vaguely.

“Is the statue finished?”

Sam looked at Frodo, who was poking at the eggs and watching him with a curious eye. “You know I thought it was but something’s come up and now I’m not so sure.”

“Is everything alright?” said Merry with earnest concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Just, um.” He floundered.

“Who are you talking to?” said Frodo.

He covered the receiver with his hand. “Just my friend.”

“Who was that?” said Merry.

“No-one,” said Sam. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m splendid,” said Merry in that airy way he had. “Due tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Sam’s stomach plunged. “Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Listen, I ought to go. I’m really busy with the – statue.”

“Sam –”

“Goodbye,” he said, and hung up the receiver. He breathed out.

At the table, Frodo was plating up their bacon and eggs. “What was that all about?”

“You speak into the receiver,” said Sam, motioning at it, “and there’s wires that take your voice to another telephone so you can talk to someone in another house.”

“I see,” said Frodo. “Very clever.”

They sat down to eat. Frodo passed Sam the salt before he could ask for it. He salted his eggs and poked at the soft yolk.

He asked a question that had been nagging at him. “How did you know the statue was for the council?”

“I heard you talking about it,” said Frodo, cutting up his bacon.

“Oh,” said Sam. “Um. When?”

“When I was in the statue.”

Sam looked at his eggs. He looked at Frodo. He said, “you could hear me?”

“Mm-hm,” said Frodo.

“Could you,” said Sam, “see me?”

“Once you gave me eyes, yes.”

“Oh.” Sam thought it over. He felt a sudden flush of embarrassment.

Frodo laughed. “I don’t know why you’re blushing,” he said. “I didn’t see anything I didn’t like.”

“It’s just –” Sam said. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Frodo ate some bacon. “It was like I was very far away and gradually coming closer,” he said. “Sort of like being in a tunnel with a light at the end.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Did it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” said Frodo. “By the by, what city is this?”

“Haven,” said Sam.

“Haven?” Frodo said the name as if he had never heard it before. “I had a look outside before you woke up and I don’t recognise anything. Is this still the Shire?”

“The what?”

“Hm.” Frodo sipped his tea. He held his mug between his palms as if warming his hands. “Where are we, then?”

“The City of Haven,” said Sam.

“Hobbits didn’t used to have cities.” Frodo’s face had turned pensive. He was troubled. Why he was troubled by hobbits living in cities Sam couldn’t imagine, but troubled he was.

“Well, we do now.” Feeling bolder, Sam said, “after breakfast maybe I could show you some of it.”

Reaching across the table Frodo took his hand and squeezed it. “I’d like that.”

*

Sam looked again into his workshop. The plinth was still empty. He pulled the door closed, and latched it.

Outside, he locked the front door behind them. Frodo was looking up and down the street, taking in the low grey terraces, the cliff of the second circle rising behind them. He was studying the street the same way he’d studied Sam’s face, as if searching for answers. What question he was trying to answer Sam didn’t know.

The sky was vibrantly blue. Overhead, gulls were wheeling. Sam had a sudden urge to take Frodo’s hand and lead him on down the street.

Instead, he said, “c’mon.”

They went down the street, feet pattering on the smooth flagstones, past the sign of the White Sparrow out onto the Street of the Fox. It was a broader street of white houses and workshops. A horse and cart was passing and they stood on the curb to watch it go by.

“This is all so different.” Frodo looked at the buildings with their white-painted walls and round doors and windows. “The doors are the same.”

They crossed the street and turned into a narrow lane between workshops. At the end of the lane a narrow slice of ocean came into view, blue and glittering.

Frodo grabbed his arm. “Are we by the sea?”

“Sort of –”

Before Sam could explain, Frodo took off down the lane, racing over the cobbles towards the edge of the circle. “Wait!” Sam called, hastening after him.

He caught up with Frodo at the edge of the circle. He leaned upon the wall, gazing out at the sea in wide-eyed delight. “I wasn’t sure I’d see it again.” He looked down at the fourth circle. “It’s awfully high, this place, isn’t it? I suppose I shall get used to it.” Then he frowned and said to Sam, “is there just the city and the sea?”

“There’s other cities.” Sam pointed out to sea. “Closest one is Bywater, out that way. I’ve never been.”

“Bywater,” Frodo echoed. The name seemed to mean something to him. He looked out to sea as if searching for it – as if searching for something he understood. The sight of the sea had so delighted him, but now it, too, was troubling him.

“We could go down to the harbour,” Sam ventured.

“Sure.” Frodo smiled at him. “I’m easy.”

As they went down the steps, Sam kept a close eye on passers-by. They stayed out of Frodo’s way as if they could see him, or at least they seemed to. No-one looked at Sam twice when he spoke to him. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he stretched out his hand to touch Frodo, there might be nothing there.

They sat up on the harbour wall, the pavement on one side and the high, greenish drop down to the water on the other. It was low tide and the harbour was quiet. Out at sea a steamer was passing, chugging along on its slow path between cities.

Looking out to sea, Frodo said, “where did the rest of the world go?”

“The sea rose up and drowned it,” said Sam. “A long time ago.”

“Why?” said Frodo, a question so simple and so strange that Sam wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“Just did,” he managed. “I dunno much about it. I didn’t get taught much history.”

Frodo drew a leg up to his chest. He stared out at the horizon.

Back at the house he had seemed so confident, so at ease. But out in the open he was lost. He didn’t know the name of the city or what a telephone was. He didn’t know about the coming of the sea. From the curious way he’d looked at the steamer he’d not seen its like before either.

And yet it was clear he wasn’t stupid, nor even really ignorant. He knew all about _a_ world; it was just that the world he knew wasn’t the one they were in.

Frodo said, “how did you get here?”

“Me?” said Sam.

Frodo hummed. “Did you have parents?”

“I never knew ‘em,” Sam confessed. “They, um. They told me I was found.”

“Found?”

“On the beach,” said Sam. “South of the city.They told me I was found there when I was a baby.”

As Frodo took that in, his face broke into a smile. “The sea brought you here.”

“I don’t know that it did.”

“The sea brought you here,” said Frodo, so confidently that Sam couldn’t bring himself to argue. He nodded as if he understood.

Frodo breathed out. He studied Sam’s face – not searching it as he had before, just making a study of him. Sam found he didn’t mind it, being looked at like that. It gave him a funny, squirmy feeling in his belly.

“You’re so young,” said Frodo at length. “What age are you?”

“Just shy of thirty.”

Looking out to sea, Frodo said, “I knew it would be like this. But I didn’t know what it would be _like_. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Sam.

“It’s just so strange.” Frodo’s eyes were on him again. Reaching out he touched Sam’s face, stroking his cheek. “Seeing you like this.” His thumb brushed Sam’s lower lip. A thrill went through him. “And you’re a mason now?”

“That I am,” Sam managed.

“You used to be a gardener.”

“In the other life?”

“Mm.” Frodo’s hand fell away from his face. Sam sighed at the loss.

“Can you tell me about it?”

Frodo’s gaze drifted once again out to sea. For a long moment he didn’t speak. The breeze picked at his hair. “We had another life,” he said. “Here, but a long time ago – I don’t know how long. Hundreds of years. Thousands, maybe. I couldn’t say. And then we passed on to another place.”

“We died?” said Sam cautiously.

Frodo shook his head. “Not exactly. It was just – another place. And we grew tired of it. There were people there – powerful people – and they said we could have a second chance. Another life together.” He lapsed back into silence. “It was sort of a reward.”

“A reward?” said Sam. “For what?”

“That’s a long story,” said Frodo. “They sent you on ahead so you could summon me.”

“You couldn’t come the way I did?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just – couldn’t.” Frodo had begun to fidget, rubbing his fingers together, and looking properly at his hands Sam saw that he was touching the stump of his missing finger, rubbing at it as if it ached. He wanted badly to reach out and still his hands. 

“They said you might remember nothing of our old life, or everything, or anything in between,” said Frodo. “But so long as you remembered enough to still love me, you’d be able to call me here.” He looked at Sam, and with a sudden rush of feeling Sam saw that his eyes were wet. “And you did,” he went on, weakly smiling. “So you must remember me a little. You got my face right – that’s something.”

“I dunno where your face came from,” said Sam, which was only half true. “I’m sorry.” Frodo said nothing. “You’re not telling me everything.”

Frodo looked down at his lap.

“What people?” said Sam. “What was our other life like? Why were we being rewarded?”

For a very, very long moment Frodo was silent. The steamer was all but out of sight. “I should be ready for this,” he said at last. “I know I should be. We knew you might forget. We knew this was a possibility. I just –”

“Just?”

“I didn’t think you’d forget,” Frodo confessed. “It seems so silly now, but I thought what we had was strong enough that there was no way you’d really forget.”

“Oh,” said Sam. What else could he say, to that.

Frodo shook his head. “But that isn’t how it works,” he said. “Whether or not you forgot, it had nothing to do with – how you felt for me. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I had the best part of thirty years to get ready to talk about this and I didn’t. I just – didn’t.

“And part of me feels like you have a right to know, Sam, to know all of it,” he went on, “but at the same time, I – it wasn’t an altogether happy life. There were parts of it I wish I could forget. I don’t know if I should burden you with it if I don’t have to.”

Sam took his hand. It was warm, and solid, and at being touched so Frodo started. He studied the fine hair on his knuckles – his bitten nails – the faint scar on the side of his hand.

“I want to know,” Sam said. “But I don’t want you to tell me before you’re ready it’s gonna hurt you.”

“Sam,” said Frodo. “You’re too sweet for your own good, you know that?”

He was smiling now, but the smile wasn’t quite reaching those blue eyes. The steamer had gone out of sight behind the western edge of the harbour.

Sam squeezed Frodo’s hand, and said, “c’mon.”

“Where are we going?” said Frodo as Sam led him down from the harbour wall.

“This way,” said Sam. “I have an idea.”

He led Frodo all the around the harbour, round the lower circle to the curving promenade, where children played on the pebbly beach below and on the steps leading up to the next circle, where there were shops and cafes where hobbits sat drinking tea under colourful umbrellas. Where there was usually an ice cream cart.

Though he could afford it, he didn’t often go to the ice cream cart. It felt indulgent – excessive – to go just by himself. But it was a glorious day, and he wasn’t by himself. He had company and that made it an occasion.

“Two strawberry, please,” he said to the ice cream seller. “Strawberry alright?” he said to Frodo.

Frodo was studying the ice cream in the cart as if he’d never seen anything like it before. Very likely he hadn’t. “Sounds good.”

Sam watched as the ice cream seller handed Frodo his paper cup and spoon. “Thank you,” said Frodo, and the ice cream seller nodded crisply in return.

He paid up, and they ambled away from the cart. “Oh,” he said once they were some distance away. “That’s a relief and no mistake.”

“Hm?”

“Just good to know someone else can see you,” said Sam.

To his surprise, Frodo burst out laughing. “Oh,” he said. “Oh. I’m real, Sam.”

“Well, I know that now!” Sam protested. Frodo was still laughing. “Look, you can’t blame me for wondering. I kissed a statue and it turned into you. That’s _mad_ , Frodo. That’s proper mad.”

“It must have been very strange.” Frodo took a tentative scoop of ice cream. “ _Oh_ ,” he said. “This is delicious.”

“Careful you don’t eat it too fast,” said Sam as he dug in. “It’ll make your head hurt.”

“Ah – one of life’s little tests,” said Frodo. “How do they get it so cold?”

“In a freezer,” said Sam.

“What’s that?”

“A machine for making things cold.”

“I see. And how does it work?”

“Well, it –” Sam ate another spoonful of ice cream and mulled it over. “To be honest, I don’t really know.”

Again Frodo laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “Why did you kiss the statue, by the by?”

Sam poked at his ice cream. He shrugged.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Frodo hastened to add. “It was a bit unexpected, but it was a good kiss. And I’m not just saying that because it was our first kiss in thirty years.”

At that, Sam felt a strange throb low down in his belly. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d known, of course, for Frodo had said they loved each other, and had kissed him back – had touched him so tenderly. But it hadn’t really occurred to him that there must have been more kissing in this other life – that there might have been more than kissing. That Frodo might _want_ him.

He put his ice cream spoon in his mouth and sucked it clean. He felt rather as if he was on a date, walking along the promenade eating ice cream, talking about kissing. He’d never been on a date before.

“You’re blushing.” Frodo was smiling. One of his cheeks had a dimple and Sam wanted to kiss it.

“Am I?” he said vaguely.

Frodo paced backwards toward the sea wall, looking up at the city above them. “I’ve been to a place like this before,” he said. “Not exactly the same. But the shape of it – the tiers.” Turning to Sam he said, “is Minas Tirith still there?”

“Oh – yes,” said Sam. “That’s way south of here.”

“That’s something.” Frodo leaned on the wall. “Do you live alone?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I, um. I moved into the workshop when I was apprenticed to my old master. He died about a year back and now it’s mine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Frodo. “Were you close?”

“Yes,” said Sam. “And – no. We were together a long time and I liked him and all, but he was all business.” He sucked on his spoon. “It’s been quiet without him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Frodo again. Thoughtfully, he ate a spoonful of ice cream. He said, “show me more of the city.”

*

He hadn’t planned on having company, and he didn’t have anything in for lunch. Poking through the larder he supposed he could heat up a can of soup.

“Do you want some soup?” he called up the stairs.

“That would be lovely,” Frodo called back.

Sam took out a can, and set it down on the worktop. Scowling at it, he tried to remember where the can opener had got to.

There was a knock upon the door. He whirled around to face it, for a moment panicked at the intrusion. He had been so wrapped up in the events of the morning – in the strange other life he had entered – in Frodo – he had all but forgotten that his ordinary life still existed, and he might have visitors.

The door began to open and dashing over he slammed it shut. “Hey!” said a muffled voice.

Sam opened the door a crack. Merry glowered in at him. “You can’t just walk into my house!” he said. “I _told_ you!”

“You almost took my fingers off,” said Merry, indignant.

“What are you doing here?” said Sam.

“You sounded weird on the telephone this morning so I thought I’d come over and check everything was alright,” said Merry. “Is everything alright?”

“Aye,” said Sam. “Everything’s just fine. Go away.”

“Can I come in?” said Merry.

“No,” said Sam. “I’m very busy.”

“Sam?” called Frodo from the washroom. “Everything alright down there?”

He almost shouted back, but thought better of it. He closed his mouth and turned back to Merry, who was frowning. “Someone in there?”

“No,” said Sam.

“I distinctly heard someone,” said Merry.

“No you didn’t,” said Sam.

“Did you bring someone home last night?”

“What? No!”

“I was going to say, it doesn’t seem like you,” said Merry.

“Sam?” called Frodo again.

“What’s going on with you?” Merry said.

“Nothing,” Sam lied. Upstairs, the bedroom door opened. Merry was peering over his shoulder – and suddenly his eyes lit up.

“Hello,” he said, shouldering straight past Sam into the house.

“Hey, now –” Sam protested.

Frodo was partway down the stairs – and at the sight of Merry on the doormat he beamed and took the rest at a run. “Merry!”

“I _thought_ that was you!” said Merry.

Frodo threw his arms around Merry, hugging him tight and laughing. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

“You took your sweet time,” said Merry as they drew apart.

“You know I had no say in the matter.” Frodo aimed a punch at his arm. “You beast.”

Sam looked from one of them to the other, helpless and utterly baffled, a sick, unpleasant feeling rising in his chest. “ _What_ is going on?” he cried. “How do you two know each other?”

Merry looked at him, his smile fading, but not dying. He said to Frodo, “he doesn’t remember?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was Sam Mason, of Haven City. He knew who he was. The idea that there might have been another Sam, who’d lived another life, made him feel as if he’d opened an unfamiliar door in his house and found nothing beyond but darkness and mist._

Frodo shrugged. “Not so far.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Merry.

For a moment Sam was at a loss. He wanted to scream. He wanted to give both of them a piece of his mind and he didn’t know where to start. He dithered.

He made his choice and grabbing Merry’s arm towed him out of the house onto the doorstep.

“Hey!” Merry protested. 

The door banged shut behind them. “What is going _on?_ ” Sam hissed. “How do you know him?”

“He didn’t tell you?” said Merry, nonplussed.

“He told me some – stuff about another life,” said Sam. “He said he didn’t want to get into it.”

“That _is_ about the long and short of it.” Merry cocked his head to the side. “He was the statue?”

“Aye,” said Sam. “Wait, did you know this was going to happen?”

“Not exactly,” said Merry. “I had an idea something like this was going to happen eventually. But I wasn’t sure.”

It was maddening – all of it, was maddening. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” said Merry, spreading his arms. “By the way, Sam, there’s a chance the statue you’re making might be going to turn into a flesh and blood hobbit who you’re madly in love with? Would you have believed me?”

“Probably not,” Sam admitted. “He said that too.”

“Hm?”

“That I’m in love with him.” Sam breathed out. “I just met him. I dunno what to do.”

“You really don’t remember?” said Merry.

Wordless, Sam shook his head.

“I always thought you didn’t, but then I saw that drawing and started to wonder if – I don’t know,” said Merry. “Ah, well.”

A door opened across the street. Sam’s neighbour Briony came out with a basin of soapy water and tipped it down the gutter. Sam watched it drain away, bubbles fizzing out on the wet flagstones.

“You could have said something,” he said when she’d gone back inside.

“It’s not exactly an easy subject to bring up,” said Merry. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to go about it for years.”

“You’ve known for _years?_ ” said Sam. “Have you always known?”

Merry shook his head. “Not always – and I don’t think I remember everything. It came back in bits and pieces in my teens.”

“Is it still coming back?” said Sam.

“Nothing for years.” Merry rubbed his ear, then suddenly brightened and said, “we should telephone Pippin.”

“What?” said Sam. “Why?”

“Well, I imagine Frodo’d like to see him,” said Merry, rocking back on his heels. 

“He would?” Sam realised what he was driving at. “Was Pippin in the other life too?”

Merry shrugged. “Naturally.”

He tried to wrap his head around that. He had just been starting to get his head around it, to ground himself in this strange new reality – only to find it expanding, and growing still stranger. “How many of us _are_ there?”

“Just three,” said Merry. “As far as I remember, anyway.”

“Does he know?”

“Pippin?” said Merry. “You know, I’m honestly not sure. To be perfectly frank, I’d be surprised if he did. It’s not like him to remember a thing like that.”

Sam hummed in agreement.

It sank in still further, the strangeness of it – the things Frodo had said – and now Merry echoing them – it was more than he could stand. He clutched at his head and said, miserably, “you ever have one of those dreams where you’re back in school and there’s a test on and you don’t know any of the answers?”

Merry clicked his tongue. He put his hand upon Sam’s shoulder. “I can’t say that I have, but I think I know what you’re getting at.”

“Merry,” said Sam, “Merry, they’re coming to get the statue tomorrow and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure it’ll work itself out.” Merry tilted his head to the side. “Can I telephone Pippin?”

Sam gave up. “Sure. Do as you please.”

In the kitchen, Frodo was standing by the stove, turning the can of soup over and over in his hands as if it was a puzzle he was trying to make sense of. “Hello, again,” he said. He held up the can. “How do you get it out?”

“Oh, you need the – can opener.” Sam crossed the room to take the soup. He weighed it in his hand. “I don’t know where the can opener is,” he confessed.

Frodo leaned upon the worktop and said soberly, “will it be trapped forever?” 

Wandering about the kitchen, Merry opened a drawer with a metallic rattle of utensils. Sam looked down at the sealed end of the can. “Maybe.”

“Here you go,” said Merry, smacking the can opener into Sam’s hand.

Sam stared at it. “How do you do that?”

Merry spread his hands. “It’s a gift.” To Frodo, he said, “would you like to see Pippin?”

“Must I?” said Frodo.

“I’m going to tell him you said that,” said Merry.

“I jest,” Frodo said. “I’d love to see him.”

“You’re an ass,” said Merry. “I’m going to use the telephone.”

Sam set about opening the can, Frodo watching him with a fascinating air. “Hm!” he said when the top of the can came away. He looked up at Sam and said, “just so you know, I could hear you two just now. I mean, I tried not to listen in. But it was hard not to.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Sorry.”

“Not at all.” Frodo peered at the soup. “How do they get it _in_ there?”

“I really don’t know,” said Sam. “I never thought about it.”

“Is it good soup?”

“No,” Sam confessed.

Merry hung up the receiver and wandered back to the table. “Well, he’s coming over.” To Frodo, he said, “how was your trip?”

“Peculiar,” said Frodo. “Sort of dusty.” He looked Merry up and down. “You look well.”

Merry put his hands upon his hips and stuck out his chest. “That I do.”

“What are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I’m a third level guildshobbit in the scribe’s guild,” said Merry.

“I see,” said Frodo. “I think I understand what that means. How about Pippin?”

“Fourth level,” Merry said. “Are you wearing Sam’s clothes?”

Frodo looked down at himself. “I arrived naked into this world.”

“Oh, delightful!” Merry took a seat at the kitchen table and fetched out his tobacco pouch. “Fancy a smoke?”

Sam spooned the soup into two bowls. Nearby Merry sat picking at a slice of bread and butter, Frodo listening intently to what he had to say. “There’s a machine, you see,” Merry said. “It puts the soup in the cans and then seals them shut."

“I _see_ ,” said Frodo. “Why?”

“So you can eat it later,” said Merry. “Lasts for years.”

“But it’s not good soup?”

“It is not,” said Merry.

Sam slid a bowl over to Frodo. “Tuck in.”

Before he could sit down and eat himself, there was a knock upon the door. “See,” said Sam. “Some people have manners. Some people don’t just walk in.”

Merry waved his pipe indignantly. “Sam, we’re practically family.”

“Shush,” said Sam. He answered the door.

Pippin was lounging against the round doorframe, his cap as ever askew, his arms folded. “I’m here,” he said. “Where’s the fire?”

Sam looked over his shoulder at Frodo, eating his soup. “I think you’d better come on in.”

“Oh!” cried Frodo as Pippin came into the kitchen. “Look at you!”

“Look at me?” Pippin shot Sam a puzzled look. “Who’s this?”

“You don’t know who he is?” said Sam.

“Should I?”

“ _Oh_ thank goodness.” Sam sagged against the wall. His knees were weak, he was so relieved. “I was afraid I was the only one who didn’t know what was going on.”

“I see.” Pippin nodded. “What’s going on?”

With a flourish of his pipe, Merry gestured at Frodo. “Pip, this is Frodo,” he said. “He’s – well, do you remember the statue Sam was making?”

“Oh! The council statue?” Pippin said.

“Yes,” said Merry. “You see, it turned into Frodo.”

“What?” Pippin’s face went through some contortions as he processed that, or tried to. Turning to Sam, he said, “how did you _do_ that?”

“I dunno!” Sam protested.

“ _Why_ did you do that?”

Before Sam could answer, Frodo said, “for love.” He came around the table and pulled Pippin into a hug. “It’s so good to see you again, Pip. I suppose you didn’t miss me.”

“It’s very nice to meet you?” said Pippin.

Putting his hands upon Pippin’s shoulders, Frodo said, “you don’t remember me either?”

“I can fill you in, Pip,” said Merry from the table.

“Well, I’m glad at least one of you knows who I am,” said Frodo, stepping back. “Honestly. Am I really so unmemorable?”

“No,” said Sam. The word tripped out before he could stop it.

“You said that awfully quick,” said Pippin, and Sam’s face went hot and crimson.

But Frodo was laughing. Already Sam found he loved the sound of that laugh, the way it made him feel light and airy, like he could pick up his feet and float right up off the ground. He wanted to hear that laugh every day.

Frodo’s hands cupped his face and he sucked in a breath. “Oh, Sam – I love you so.”

When the soup was eaten, they sat around the table, bowls and spoons pushed side, idly smoking. Sam leant Frodo one of his spare pipes and his eyes kept drifting to its mouthpiece, held between Frodo’s lips.

“That’s the short version,” Merry finished. “I can give you the long version later, but you might be better having it from Frodo since he’s the one who remembers it first-hand.”

Pippin mulled it over, biting at the mouthpiece of his pipe the way he did when he was thinking very hard. He took the pipe from his mouth and said, “this is all very peculiar.”

“You don’t remember anything at all?” said Sam.

Shrugging, Pippin said, “should I?”

“No,” Frodo hastened to say. “No – it’s fine that you don’t.”

“It doesn’t sound fine,” said Pippin.

Merry set his elbow upon the table and gestured at Sam and Pippin with his pipe. “Did it really never strike either of you as odd that we were _all_ found on a beach?”

“No,” said Pippin.

“Didn’t really think about it,” said Sam.

“I always thought it was just something that happens sometimes,” said Pippin.

“Pippin,” Merry sighed, “I love you, but you are very stupid.”

“Rude.” Pippin put his pipe back in his mouth and said around it, “are you going to live here?”

Sam bit his lip.

“Well.” Reaching across the table Frodo took his hand. “I suppose that’s up to Sam.”

Sam floundered. Part of him wanted to say yes; another, more sensible part felt he couldn’t agree to it, being as he’d known Frodo less than a day and had no idea how long he intended to stay or who he was or even, really, _what_ he was. But the sensible part of him also wanted to say that of course Frodo could stay a while, being as he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

But he couldn’t say that, or not without giving the impression that Frodo could only stay for as long as it took him to find someplace else to live. That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to turn him out.

Frodo squeezed his hand. “Can I stay tonight?”

“Of course,” said Sam. “Of course you can.”

Pippin cleared his throat. “Now, I don’t want to be rude,” he said. “But I don’t know if you can just – move in. Sam would need to tell the council you’re living here, for taxes and things, and they’d want to see your identity papers. Which I assume you don’t have, since you were formerly a statue.”

“Papers?” said Frodo vaguely.

“For once in his life Pippin’s right,” said Merry.

“Thank you,” said Pippin.

“You’ll need papers.” Merry tapped his pipe upon the table as he spoke. “To say who you are and that you have a right to live and work in Haven, and travel to other cities if you want to. As it is now I suppose you don’t exist here.”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Sam.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Merry crisply. “You had much more important things to think about. Anyhow, it shouldn’t be difficult to arrange. I’m sure me and Pip can sort it out between us.”

“ _Merry_.” Pippin pressed a hand to his chest as if scandalised. “Are you suggesting that we engage in acts of forgery?”

“Is that a problem?” Merry put his pipe in his mouth.

“Not at all,” said Pippin. “In fact, I love the idea. This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Merry patted his arm. “No it isn’t.” To Frodo, he said, “do you want to keep your last name?”

“Wait,” said Pippin. “What happened to the statue?”

“Well, it turned into me,” said Frodo.

“So it’s gone?” Pippin turned to Sam. “You’re going to be in _so_ much trouble.”

Sam pressed his forehead to the table top and groaned aloud.

“Shush,” said Frodo, rubbing his back. “Don’t listen to him. It’ll be fine. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Jail,” said Sam, darkly muffled against the table.

“What are you going to do?” said Pippin.

“He’s going to give them me,” said Frodo. “Obviously.”

“And they’ll put you on the city hall?”

“I shall stand very still,” Frodo said, “and people will admire me.”

In spite of his dread, Sam began to laugh.

*

The day lapsed on into evening, and into night. Merry and Pippin stayed for dinner and a while after and there was talk and laughter – though Sam had the sense that there were things Merry and Frodo weren’t discussing. More than ones he caught them exchanging sad looks.

They had a whole other life, he supposed, that they must want to reminisce about. But they couldn’t, with him and Pippin there. Part of him wanted to tell them to just out with it. Another part of him didn’t want to hear about the other life – didn’t ever want to hear about it.

He was Sam Mason, of Haven City. He knew who he was. The idea that there might have been another Sam, who’d lived another life, made him feel as if he’d opened an unfamiliar door in his house and found nothing beyond but darkness and mist.

When Merry and Pippin were gone, he washed up the dishes and set them on the rack by the sink to dry overnight. He stood drying his hands, looking at the latched door of the workshop.

It must be the truth, he supposed. He must have had another life. Merry remembered it. And what other explanation was there for the way Frodo appeared, but that he was telling the truth? There was none that he could think of. Impossible as it seemed it had been some kind of magic.

At first, when he’d latched the workshop door, he’d been afraid to look inside and see the statue missing. Now he found he was afraid that if he opened the door it would be back. He’d turn around and find the house empty and Frodo gone.

“You can have the bed to yourself tonight,” he said. “If you like.”

“Hm?” Frodo looked down at him from the stairs. “We shared last night.”

Sam’s stomach turned over. “Aye – I know,” he said. “But if you want it for yourself tonight you can have it.”

Frodo leaned upon the bannister. “Where would you sleep?”

“I can sleep in the workshop,” said Sam. “I sleep in there all the time, it’s where I slept before –”

Marching back down the stairs, Frodo took his hand. “Sam. Come to bed.”

“But –”

A gentle tug, and Frodo was leading him up the stairs. “Come to bed.”

*

The morning light was pale and blueish. The curtain billowed softly at the place where the window didn’t shut right. He lay half-dozing, watching the curtain billow. The bed was warm. Beside him there was a sigh, and a shifting.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked at Frodo. He was sleeping on his side, all curled in on himself. He had a pensive look on his face as if he was dreaming of deep questions. His right hand, the one missing a finger, lay upon the pillow.

Sam wanted to burrow down under the blankets with him, to stay in bed forever, safely in Frodo’s arms. He wanted to hold him, to pull him to his chest and hold him tight and keep him safe. He wanted to put himself between Frodo and the rest of the world, between him and anything that might dare hurt him.

Reaching over, gently Sam lifted in his hand. He ran his thumb over the back of it. The skin was soft, and cool. But then his thumb touched the stump of the missing finger Frodo’s hand tensed, his fingers curling in, slipping from Sam’s grip.

“Sorry,” Sam whispered.

“Hm?” Shifting, eyes half-opening, Frodo turned his head. “Sam?”

“Aye.”

“Hm.” Frodo settled back against the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Dunno,” said Sam. “Early.” He wanted to touch Frodo. He wanted to take his hand again, to touch his hair and kiss his neck. It wasn’t that he thought Frodo would mind being touched. It wasn’t that. It was just that he couldn’t shake the sensation that if he touched Frodo too much he might vanish, might dissipate into the air like a soap bubble.

He said, “are you staying?”

“In your bed?” said Frodo.

“No,” said Sam. “Here, in Haven. In the world. Are you staying?”

Sighing, Frodo rolled over to face him. He began to stroke Sam’s hair. “I was planning to. Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Mm,” said Frodo, still stroking his hair. “Yes.”

“Good,” said Sam.

“Good?” Frodo echoed.

“Good.”

Frodo kissed him on the cheek. Eyes falling closed, he nuzzled at him, pressing his face into his neck, and Sam thought his heart might stop beating.

He put his arms around Frodo and held him close. “M’sorry.”

“For what?” said Frodo softly.

“That I don’t remember.”

“Shush,” Frodo said. “It’ll come back to you.”

“I –”

“Shh. Go to sleep.”

*

He was woken again by an angry hammering upon the front door. The clock on his bedside table said it was almost ten. He sat up. “Oh no.”

“Hm?” said Frodo, not opening his eyes.

“I think they’re here.”

“Oh.” Frodo raised his head and looked at him. “Do you want me to come down?”

“No – no, you stay here,” said Sam. “I’ll deal with it.”

He pulled on a pair of trousers, to get himself at least partway presentable, and on his way down the stairs tucked his nightshirt into the waistband. “Stolen,” he muttered to himself. “I can explain. It’s been – stolen.”

On the doorstep stood a city messenger. Sam blinked at him. He rubbed his eyes. “G’morning.”

“Are you the stonemason?” said the messenger.

“Aye,” said Sam. “Look, I can explain –”

She thrust an envelope at him. “Message from the stonemason’s guild.”

Sam looked at the envelope, his name inked severely on it. It crossed his mind that maybe they were pushing back the deadline, and his heart lightening at the thought he broke the seal and scanned the contents.

He read it again. “This don’t make any sense,” he said to the messenger.

“Not my problem.” The messenger adjusted the sit of her cap. “That’ll be all, then.” She hopped off the step and was away down the street before Sam could protest any further.

Sam went back up the stairs, clutching the envelope, woozy from sleep and a touch light-headed with confusion. Frodo was still abed, lying on his stomach, half under the blankets. “Everything alright?”

He sat upon the edge of the bed and drew the letter fully from the envelope. “Samwise Mason, Stonemason, Workshop on the Street of the White Sparrow,” he read aloud. “ _Your services are no longer required by the city council. They apologise for any inconvenience caused and enclose full compensation for your time._ And then there’s just the seals.” 

He pulled the bank slip from the envelope and looked it over. It covered his full fee and a bit extra.

“Well,” said Frodo. “That sounds like good news to me. Didn’t I tell you it would work itself out?”

“I just can’t make sense of it,” said Sam, still looking hopelessly at the bank slip. He bit his lip. “I should go out.”

The blankets behind him shifted. Frodo’s hand touched his shoulder. “Do you have to?”

“Aye, I –” Sam shrugged him off. “It’s the guild meet today,” he said, stepping out of his trousers and into his underthings. “And while I’m here I should try and speak to someone about what happened with the contract –” He pulled up his trousers. “And I’ll need to go to the bank.” He fastened the buttons and stood for a moment touching his waistband, feeling rather as if he’d lost his place in a page of text.

He looked at Frodo, still lying under the blankets. “Will you be alright here on your own?”

“Of course,” said Frodo. “I managed without you for years. I can go a few hours.”

“I can stay.” Sam perched on the edge of the bed. “I don’t have to go.”

“No,” said Frodo. “It’s your job. You should go. I really will be fine.” Sitting up, he kissed Sam’s cheek. “Will you be back for lunch?”

Sam shook his head. “Should be back for dinner.”

“Alright.” Frodo’s fingers traced down his cheek. “See you then.”

“Have I upset you?” said Sam.

“Why would you have upset me?”

“Because –”

Because he was leaving Frodo alone when they’d only been together a day. Because he was upset that the council had said they didn’t want the statue – and worried that he might get into trouble, rather than entirely happy that Frodo was there.

Because he’d forgotten.

“I dunno,” he finished.

“Put on a shirt and get going.” Frodo dropped a kiss on his bare shoulder. “You’ll make yourself late.”

*

After the guild meet he meant to go straight to the enquiries desk and speak to a clerk. He’d brought both letters to show them and they were sitting hot in his pocket with the bank slip – the slip for the money he needed, but felt like he was stealing.

He stood in the guild hall, checking his pigeonhole, not quite able to face the clerks yet.

“Sam!” cried out a voice. It was Otto Boffin, striding purposefully towards him.

“Afternoon,” said Sam.

“It’s Sam, isn’t it?” said Otto.

“Aye.” Sam touched his pocket. “Listen, I can’t talk just now. I have to go and speak to a clerk.”

“Oh, yes,” said Otto. “What’s happening with you and this council job?”

“I dunno,” Sam said, which was the truth. “I dunno what you mean,” he went on, which was a lie.

“I think you do,” said Otto.

“Oh?”

“I heard tell you didn’t finish.”

Sam’s face heated. He set his jaw and said, “I finished it. I did the best job I could and then they told me they didn’t want the damn thing anymore.”

“What a nuisance,” said Otto. “Can I see it, then? Now that it’s done?”

“Why?” said Sam. “It’s not going on the city hall anymore. Why do you care?”

Otto seemed, for half a second, taken aback by the vitriol in his voice. “No,” he said. “I suppose I don’t.”

“I really need to see a clerk,” Sam said, backing up towards the archway that led to the enquiries desk. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, then!” Otto called after him.

He waited endlessly as always at the clerk’s desk. It was a busy day and it was past three o’clock by the time he was served. He was getting hungry. He hadn’t bothered with breakfast.

He showed the clerk the letters and waited endlessly again while she went into the back room and made some enquiries of her own. At length, she pushed the letters back under the glass screen and said, “I’m sorry – we don’t have any record of this.”

“You what?” said Sam.

“Who gave you the letters?” said the clerk.

“A city messenger,” said Sam. “They’ve got the guild seal, look.”

“Yes, I did think that was strange,” she said. “It’s a good fake but it must be a fake. You ought to have come and checked it with us.”

“I _did_ check it with you.” It was hard not to get snappish. His head felt swimmy. He was beginning to feel as if he was in a bad dream. “I’m telling you, I did.”

“Well, whoever you showed them to must not have checked it properly,” she said. “I’m very sorry you’ve wasted your time. I’m afraid someone’s been giving you the run-around.”

“Not as such,” said Sam. “They paid me and all.”

“They _did?_ ” she said, sounding quite baffled.

“And they’ve got the council seal as well,” he said. “Looks real enough to me.”

She pursed her lips. “I suppose you could ask a city council clerk,” she said. “They’d be able to tell you if it was genuine.”

“Aye,” said Sam. “Alright. I’ll do that, then.”

“Next, please,” said the clerk, looking clean past him.

He went to the bank and waited in line again to pay his fee. He half expected them to say that it was fake but they took it with no trouble and let him withdraw some money. He stopped off at the café on the corner for a sandwich and ate it as he walked.

His late lunch eaten, he went up the marble steps to the first circle, to the grand columns of the city council building. There he had his most endless wait yet.

“They’ve got the city council seal on them,” he said, thrusting his letters at the bewildered clerk. “And the stonemason’s guild seal. But the guild said they didn’t send them so they must be fakes. Are they fakes?”

The clerk took the letters and adjusted his spectacles. He read them slowly, one at a time. “Excuse me,” he said, and got up to use the speaking tube.

A few minutes of hushed conversation later he sat back down and said, “it’s very peculiar. We _are_ in the process of commissioning a statue, but we haven’t contracted a stonemason as yet.”

“You haven’t?” said Sam. “Then who sent these? Are they fakes?”

“The seal _does_ seem to be genuine,” said the clerk. “I really don’t know what to tell you. Why didn’t you make enquiries when the materials didn’t arrive?”

“They did arrive,” said Sam miserably.

“Oh, I see,” said the clerk. “Are you looking for us to take them back? You’d need to speak to the guild about that.”

“No,” said Sam. “No, that’s not the problem. And it’s gone now, anyway.”

“Gone?”

“The statue,” said Sam. “I finished it and now it’s gone.”

“Someone came to take it away?” the clerk said.

“Not exactly,” Sam said. “Look, I was paid. The slip said it was from the council and the bank took it.”

“Do you still have it?” said the clerk.

“No, the bank took it,” said Sam.

“I see.” The clerk read over the letters again. “Would you mind if I kept these while we make some enquiries?”

“I would a bit,” said Sam.

“Splendid.” The clerk folded up the letters and put them in his tray. “Let us know if you receive any further communications about this. Next, please!”

It was after five o’clock when he pattered down the steps of the council building. He went out into the square and stood by the fountain, shading his eyes with his hand and searching for the niche where they’d been going to put the statue. There it was, standing empty.

It was just exactly as if he’d had a dream and was now waking from it. He wished dearly he hadn’t let the clerk take the letters – without them he had no tangible proof the whole business had even happened.

He felt a sudden, queasy sensation in his stomach. It couldn’t all have been a dream. Merry and Pippin had seen Frodo – and so had the ice cream seller – he’d eaten Sam’s food and slept in his bed. He was real.

But still, Sam began to walk hastily towards home.

*

It was twilight when at last he passed the Sign of the White Sparrow, and his feet ached from walking all afternoon. He’d left the front door unlocked and it was standing unlocked still.

Inside, the kitchen was dark and empty. The plates and bowls from the day before were still on the draining board. He went to the stairs and looked up at the landing. The bedroom door was closed. “Frodo?” he called. There was no answer. “Frodo?”

Turning, his gaze fell upon the workshop door. It was unlatched and half open and at that sight he felt a flare of panic.

For a moment he stood rooted to the spot. He didn’t dare look inside. He hardly dared breathe. Then, forcing his feet to move, he went to the door. He took a deep breath, and put his head into the workshop.

He saw the plinth he had made, standing empty. He sat Frodo standing at his drafting table and all the breath left him in a rush. Relief punched him hard in the gut.

He stepped fully into the workshop. “There you are.”

“Hm?” Frodo didn’t look up. He was holding some of Sam’s sketches, studying them intently as if he couldn’t make sense of them.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“Oh.” Frodo dragged his eyes away from the sketches. “I’m sorry. I was away in my own world. Did you get along alright at the guild?”

“Aye,” said Sam. “It was fine.” He took a step closer to Frodo, and another. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Frodo absently. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Drawing closer, Sam saw what Frodo was studying. It was the sketches Sam had made of his face – the design for the statue, his face drawn over and over from different angles.

Sam’s heart sank. He took a step closer, standing beside Frodo. “You sure you’re alright?”

“It’s just.” Frodo leafed through the sketches he was holding as he spoke, settling upon that first attempt he’d made on waking from his dream. Half-finished faces, scratched out. Beside them the finished drawing, rough around the edges. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Frodo said. “I’m not upset with you. I’m _not_.” He breathed deep and looked at Sam. “This was our choice. We made it together and we knew the risks. I was just – so sure you’d remember, but there’s nothing but –” His eyes were drawn back to the sketches. He lingered on one scratched-out face; his hair, one eye, the line of his nose and jaw. His thumb brushed its outline. “I thought we’d just – pick up where we left off.”

Seeing the drawings again, he was struck by how lifeless they were – how shaky, and insubstantial. Now that he had the real thing standing before him it was clear that he hadn’t done Frodo justice. 

“Would you still have done it?” said Sam. “If you’d known?”

Frodo heaved in a breath. When he looked at Sam there were tears swimming in his eyes. “Have you been content here?”

“Yes,” said Sam. “I think so.”

“Then – yes,” said Frodo. “I’d do it again.”

“Do you think I’d still have done it, if I’d known?”

“I’d like to think so. Yes.” Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. A tear spilled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry for getting like this.”

Sam wet his lips. He summoned all his courage. “I remember –”

Frodo turned to look at him. His eyes were wet and shining and the sudden flash of hope in them made Sam stammer to a halt.

He began again. “I have this dream, see,” he said. “And I have it all the time. In the dream I’m on a beach. And the sand is white, and the sea is warm, and –” He breathed in. “And you’re there with me. I remember – your face, and the way your voice sounds when you say my name. And in the dream you’re holding my hand and telling me you’ll wait for me,” he went on. “Is that – where we left off?”

Frodo’s eyes were one again swimming with tears. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

Sam took the sketches from his unresisting hands and laid them down upon the drafting table. “I think I’d like to pick up there,” he said. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Yes.”

Taking Frodo’s face in his hands, Sam kissed him.

They had kissed once before, when Frodo had first arrived, but that had been different. It had been like something out of a dream.

This, this was real. For a moment Frodo was still and unmoving; then he reached for him, throwing his arms around his waist, hands clutching at his hips, at his back. His lips parted, kissing back sweet and fierce. Sam cupped his jaw, tips of his fingers just brushing his neck, and kissed him deeper.

Sam had been kissed before, but it had never been like this. He could melt into this, melt like warm butter, melt into Frodo till they couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He wanted this again, and again, wanted it every morning and evening for the rest of his life. He wanted Frodo. He _wanted_.

When they came up for air there were tears on Frodo’s cheeks. “You’re crying,” said Sam.

“I’m happy,” said Frodo. He sniffed.

“Sh.” Sam wiped away a tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry.”

“You always used to scold me when I cried.” Frodo laughed a little, breathless. “You said it was your job.”

“Did I?”

“Mmm,” said Frodo. “You said you cried enough for the both of us.”

“May I take you to bed?” said Sam.

“Oh _my_ yes,” said Frodo and the sheer want in his voice made Sam bold.

He kissed Frodo again, wet and quick; then wrapping his arms around him he scooped him up.

“Sam!” Frodo laughed, clutching at him.

“Shall I put you down?”

Frodo smacked his chest. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “Just don’t drop me on the stairs.”

“I’ll not drop you,” said Sam. “Don’t worry.”

Frodo laughed again and as Sam bore him towards the workshop door he leaned in, putting an arm around his neck, touching their foreheads together.

He carried Frodo up the stairs and at the top shouldered open the bedroom door. “I feel like a bride,” said Frodo as he stepped over the threshold.

“Maybe you are.” Sam lay Frodo down upon the bed and fisting a hand in his shirt Frodo pulled him down after himself.

“Down you come,” he said, settling Sam on top of him, reaching for his buttons.

Sitting atop Frodo, Sam was suddenly stuck with nerves. He grabbed Frodo’s hand, stilling it. “I never –”

“That’s alright,” said Frodo. “I have. Hm?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s grip on his hand loosened. “Yes.”

Frodo’s hand slipped from his. He unbuttoned Sam’s shirt and tugged it open, his hands running down his chest, over his belly, making him tremble. “I know you inside out,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t worry.”

Sam shivered all over, insides squirming with arousal. “ _Oh_ my.”

“Kiss me again.” Frodo looped his arms around Sam’s neck, drawing him down for a long, hot kiss; and Sam let himself forget everything but the kiss and the feel of Frodo’s body beneath his, let himself melt into it.

*

Afterwards, the sun down and the windows dark, Sam lay naked, sweat cooling on his skin. He was still shivering.

Nuzzling him, Frodo said, “there was never anyone else, then?”

“No,” said Sam.

“You can tell me if there was,” said Frodo. “I won’t mind. We talked about it. I told you I wouldn’t mind, if you forgot and –”

“There was no-one else,” said Sam. “A few kisses, here and there.” It was something he was usually embarrassed to admit, but there in the dark with Frodo he felt he could admit to anything; and anyway, it wasn’t embarrassing, for he knew why it was now. He knew why there’d never been anyone.

“I was waiting for you.” He heard Frodo suck in a breath. “I didn’t know it, but I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

“Sam,” Frodo said. He had a way of saying Sam’s name like it was a compliment, like it was the highest praise in the world. Sam remembered that. He remembered all the ways Frodo had of saying his name.

“I didn’t know I was missing you,” he said. “And now you’re here, and I – I missed you _so_ much.”

“My dear Sam.” Frodo’s hand cupped his jaw.

“I love you,” said Sam, choking up.

If he hadn’t known it already, he’d known it in the panic he had felt when he’d thought Frodo was gone. He’d known it when he was watching Frodo sleep, and known it in the delight on his face when he’d tasted ice cream, known it when he’d woken in the morning to Frodo cooking him breakfast. He’d known it in every gentle word and touch and kiss.

He’d known it in his dreams. He’d known it every time he’d looked out at the sea and longed for something he didn’t know he was missing.

“Shh,” said Frodo. “Shh. Don’t start crying on me.”

Sam sobbed, and he laughed.

“I love you,” Frodo said, stroking his hair. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” said Sam.

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” said Frodo. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything, if you want to hear it. I promise.”

“Aye,” said Sam softly. “Tomorrow. Tell it to me tomorrow.”

Art by [Yambits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamBits/pseuds/YamBits). View it full-sized on [tumblr.](https://yambits.tumblr.com/post/629102814993530880/fan-art-for-the-excellent-fic-and-ill-shiver)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting!
> 
> & Massive thanks to Yambits for the art which was such a lovely surprised! Yambits' LOTR content is all gorgeous, please go and check it out.


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